taken of his appearance, and he is even handsome with his white hair, young, thoughtful face and well-bred, slow, tired movements.
When I was told all, I went up and kissed his hand, his white, languid hand, which will never more be lifted for a blow—and this did not seem to surprise anybody very much. Only his young sister smiled at me with her eyes, and afterwards showed me such attention that it seemed as if I were her betrothed and she loved me more than anybody in the world. She showed me such attention that I very nearly told her about my dark empty rooms, in which I am worse than alone miserable heart, that never loses hope. . . . And she managed it so that we remained alone.
"How pale you are and what dark rings you have under your eyes," she said kindly. "Are you ill? Are you grieving for your brother?"
"I am grieving for everybody. And I do not feel, well."
"I know why you kissed my brother's hand. They did not understand. Because he is mad, yes?"
"Yes, because he is mad."
She grew thoughtful and looked very much like her brother, only younger.
"And will you," she stopped and blushed, but did not lower her eyes, "will you let me kiss your hand?"
I kneeled before her and said: "Bless me."
She paled slightly, drew back and whispered with her lips:
"I do not believe."
"And I also."
